


You Don't Judge Me

by thursdaysfallenangel



Series: The Real Life Adventures of Misha and Jensen [16]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Destiel - Freeform, Fix-it fic, Jealous Jensen, M/M, Nothing against Darius just, con fix-it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 12:37:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10513920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thursdaysfallenangel/pseuds/thursdaysfallenangel
Summary: "Destiel doesn't exist." - Jensen Ackles, Jaxcon, 2017Another fix-it fic, where Jensen doesn't even believe his own words.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hi y'all! Although a part of the Real Life series, this fic was written on Jess' (@octuse) request because she donated to my e4k! If you would like to donate to my e4k, I'm offering to write a ficlit of the prompt and pairing of your choice, as well as your name being entered in a raffle for various prizes. I know I, Misha and Random Acts would appreciate so much if you donated!
> 
> And this is your chance to get fic out of me, woohoo! Go wild, even if you want something from a universe I've already created.
> 
> Link to donate is below! Hope you enjoy the fic!
> 
> [DONATE TO E4K](https://www.crowdrise.com/endure-4-kindness-2017/fundraiser/laurentokarewich)

Jensen is screwed.

He is so very incredibly, epically fucking screwed.

It’s not like he hasn’t opened his mouth without thinking and said something stupid before. There was that incident in Rome a few years back, where he’d pissed off the fans so much that even Misha had gotten involved. To this day Jensen’s not sure getting drunk and playacting Supernatural with the guy was a good idea, his voice deep, growly, and fucked over and like Cas to a T, while his body language and actions were most definitely  _ Misha _ .

Sometimes Jensen wonders if that might have been when it all started, this confusing blend of Dean’s feelings for Cas and his own feelings for Misha.

It’s definitely why he got so defensive this morning, jumping the gun and blurting out every denial he could the second he heard the insinuations –  _ Dr. Sexy, crush on Cas, explain it, Jensen. _

_ Destiel doesn’t exist. _

Fuck.

Jensen stares at the dark wood of the hotel door in front of him, lacking the courage to raise his hand and knock just yet.

Misha was gonna murder him.

He’d just finished photo ops for the morning, doing his solos and his duos with Jared before he was sent away so Jared could do his own solos, with strict instructions to return in two hours for their panel. He’d managed to ditch his Creation babysitter somewhere around the green room when Richard had decided to start an impromptu game of Pin the Tail on Rob using Chris’ beanie and one of Jared’s scarves.

Jensen had told him not bring any fucking scarves to  _ Florida _ , for chrissakes, but whatever.

This sneaking away was becoming more routine than habit lately, as Jensen was discovering it was harder and harder to find ways to say no to Misha’s invitation. Except this time he wasn’t even sure why he’d bothered to come. True, it was entirely possible Misha had no idea what happened at the Gold Panel this morning, but Jensen never knew anymore. He swears the guy must talk to the fans himself somehow with the speed he learns things over the rest of the cast.

He feels the cool wood of the door against his forehead a split second before he registers that he’s let it fall forward, a soft thunk that really should have been too soft to hear vibrating through the wood.

He’s not really at all surprised when the door swings open, but he still manages to make an idiot of himself and yelp like he is.

“Jen.” Misha is grinning widely at him, and that could either be very, very good or very, very bad.

Usually Jensen can tell, but his headspace is so fucked from being blindsided earlier that he really doesn’t want to take the chance.

_ Destiel doesn’t exist _ .

Except Jensen knows it does. Misha showed him, and more importantly, he’s felt it himself. He knows Dean has the hots for Cas, as easy as he knows Dean would do anything for Sam. So what the fuck was he denying?

He knows. He knows and he doesn’t want to examine it.

“Mish,” Jensen returns, grinning wryly. “Am I still invited in?”

Misha raises an eyebrow. “Is there a reason you shouldn’t be? It’s just lunch.” He takes a step back so Jensen can see the pizza box sitting on the wide desk across from the bed and next to the dresser holding a TV. “Unless lunch is illicit now.”

Jensen approaches the pizza cautiously, like any second now Misha is going to yank it away and begin the punishment he probably deserves. But nothing happens, and he’s beginning to think that Misha hasn’t heard what he’d announced to at least fifty people this morning.

That was good. He could work with that.

Misha is looking at him like he’s the strange one for once, so Jensen slips open the box, picking up a piece of pepperoni and shoving it halfway into his mouth. Misha’s fucking weird pear concoction glares up at him from the other half, and Misha must catch him eying it because he smirks before picking up a piece and taking a dramatic bite.

“So,” he says, chewing, “how were the almighty holders of the gold pass this morning?”

“Same shit, different city,” Jensen mumbles around his mouthful of cheese, meat, and bread. For some reason Jensen can’t fathom, Misha is fascinated by the questions Jensen receives during the gold panel, as if the fans there are a whole different species from the ones he had encountered at his own panel the day before.

Whenever Jensen voices his confusion on this, Misha gets this glint in his eye and starts going on about social stratification and fandom politics and, Jesus, Sunday people, at which point Jensen tunes out, because he’s never asked Rich what exactly that means and he’s pretty sure he never wants to know.

“Nothing exciting? I thought Florida was more creative than that.”

Jensen shrugs, shoves the rest of the pizza into his mouth, and reaches for another slice.

He’s stopped abruptly when Misha lays his hand on top of his own.

“Jensen.”

Not for the first time, Jensen is struck by how fucking unfair it is that Misha has eyes that precise shade of blue. They get worse as he gets closer to you, the shade growing more complex, the navy ringing his pupils melting into softer shades flecked through with even more blue, like a foamy sea. Misha is way too close now, his hand covering Jensen’s and his nose only inches away.

Vaguely, Jensen thinks that he could kiss him, if he wanted. It was a new feeling. Not wanting to kiss Misha, but knowing that he could. Dee’s teasing about his man crush had finally bloomed into her interrupting his story about a joke Misha told about the tortoise, the hare and the monk to sigh and say, “Jesus, Jensen, just kiss the man already.”

Jensen had laughed, but she’d only fixed him with a steady look and asked, “You know I’m serious, right?”

And despite Jensen’s upbringing, despite the traditional idea that kissing someone other than your wife could only lead to bad things, Jensen knew Danni, and he knew that she was completely, one hundred percent serious when she said she knew he didn’t love her any less because he…

Well, because of something with Misha.

Not that Jensen has done anything about it. He already knows from past experiences that it wouldn’t be a problem for Vicki, secure in the obvious fact that Misha loved her more than anyone else in the world, and that it was fine for him to kiss Misha on that end too. He just hadn’t yet.

He really didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to think about his feelings for Misha because even though he had the best wife in the world, they weren’t feelings he should be having. Not about one of his best friends. Not about another dude.

A dude who still had his hand (his very large hand – Jensen carefully doesn’t think about that either) wrapped around his own.

Time to go for manly indignance. “Hey,” he barks out, voice way gruffer than he wants it to be. “Something wrong with me getting another piece of pizza?”

“Ye-eees,” Misha sounds out slowly, and Jensen frowns, actually getting a little irritated.

“What’s that?”

“Well,” Misha replies, glancing in an almost curious way at the box before dragging his eyes back to Jensen’s. “It seems that the pizza doesn’t exist.”

It takes a second for Jensen’s brain to catch up with what Misha has said, and then a second more to figure out why he’s saying it. But then everything clicks into place, and his heart feels like it’s freezing in his chest.

“It’s not gonna do me any good to pretend I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, is it?” he asks hoarsely.

Misha doesn’t even respond to that; he just drops Jensen’s hand and leans back in his chair, pulling the pizza box towards him. “What I don’t understand,” he says, pulling another piece of pear pizza out, “is why you said that just after we just filmed an episode where a dying Cas looks Dean straight in the eyes and tells him he loves him.”

“I don’t know, alright?” Jensen mutters. “She caught me off guard.”

“You upset a lot of them, Jen.”

“I’m always upsetting them.”

“But this time you didn’t have to.” Misha’s right, of course. And he’s giving him that look. The wide-eyed look of understanding, not just the understanding of Jensen’s fuck up, but the understanding of why the question threw him off the way it did, the knowing set of his mouth in a moue of sympathy and the way his body has gravitated forward again, like he wants to touch Jensen but thinks he can’t, not now, not for this.

And he’s pretty sure it’s that, that Misha  _ knows _ him, that sets him off.

“Maybe I did,” he snaps, and he’s almost viciously gratified to see that he’s startled Misha, done something unexpected, caused him to jerk a little in his seat. “Maybe it’s time someone clued them into the fact that this is something that’s never gonna happen, no matter how much they want it.”

Misha’s frowning deeply now, eyes sharp as they run over Jensen’s face. “It could happen,” he counters. “If someone had the courage to go there.”

“Well maybe they’re not going there because it wouldn’t work,” Jensen tells him, voice rising to almost a shout. “Maybe it’s a dumb idea to try. Maybe it’s not worth it. Maybe it’s not fucking  _ right _ , Misha!”

Misha is already pushing his chair away from the table, which is good because it means Jensen’s won, except not really because winning an argument is never actually winning with Misha. It’s all the worst things in the world rolled into one, the disappointment and confusion and pure hurt Jensen can practically feel radiating off the man in front of him.

“I promised Rob I would help him with his leather pants,” Misha says quietly, his jaw set. “It would work, Jensen. And the only thing wrong about it is the bullshit you’ve convinced yourself of.”

He leaves the room pretty quickly after that, and Jensen is left with a cooling pizza and the nagging certainty that they hadn’t been talking about Dean and Cas at all.

 

Misha doesn’t exactly give him the silent treatment during the next couple of weeks. That’s never been Misha’s style. He’s too full of cutting remarks, too concerned to air his pettiness out in public. Instead he does more of an apathy treatment. He doesn’t walk away when Jensen joins a conversation he and Jared are having, but there’s no laughter. His responses to Jensen are even toned and without a hint of double entendre. He no longer asks if Jensen wants to come by after work.

“Dude,” Jared asks after the first week. “Did you burn all his orange underwear or something?”

Jensen grumbles something noncommittal and brushes him off. Jared may be his best friend, but this isn’t really something he wants to discuss with him. He doesn’t think Jared will realize what a big deal it is, the things Jensen feels for Misha, and he’s not sure he can handle the lack of understanding over why he hasn’t done anything about it.

_ That’s fucking stupid, _ a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Misha snorts derisively, and Jensen ignores it too.

This weekend is another con, so Jensen figures he can make up for it somehow then. It’s not hard for him to get Misha to start talking again – well, except for that one time – but he doesn’t think this should be a big deal. He hopes. If he buys him a drink, smirks a little, nudges closer when the opportunity presents itself, Misha will….

Well, he’ll think Jensen wants to sleep with him. Which he does. Not that he will. Which is the whole reason for this fight in the first place.

Whatever. The point is, Misha will probably forgive him, and they can go back to the unpressured flirting thing they did, the kind of thing that sent Jensen home frustrated and horny.

But this weekend’s con is in Vegas, which means he can be a little looser with his affection anyway.

Filming runs behind all week. It’s an episode without Misha in it that Jensen sloughs through, getting home at 4am every night only to wake up for an 8am call the next morning. The overtime means they’re still filming late Friday night, and Jensen is struggling to keep his eyes open in his chair as Jared fiddles with his phone next to him, both waiting for their next scene to be set up.

Jensen is just nodding off when Jared lets out a sudden short bark of laughter next to him, startling him back upright. “Wha’ the fuck?” he asks, rubbing at his eyes.

Jared’s grinning like an idiot. “Misha is livestreaming.”

It’s a little embarrassing how quickly Jensen leans over to peer at Jared’s phone screen. He’s pretty sure Jared doesn’t notice. Hopefully.

Jared hasn’t clicked on the video to start the video yet, and Jensen knows he’s itching to pull up Misha’s number to call him and interrupt the stream, so he says quickly, “Well, let’s see what he’s doing first.”

Jared glances at him and only pauses a second before pressing his thumb down on the screen.

And there’s Misha. He’s obviously in Vegas already, bright neon lights flashing behind him as he talks to a man who looks like he’s dressed up as the Joker, not the cool Heath Ledger one but the mess in the movie Danni had been so disappointed by, and he looks amazing, hair swept back and that fucking red leather jacket that Jensen is careful to mention he thinks ‘looks nice’ at every opportunity so he’ll keep wearing it, and over his shoulder is—

“What the fuck is Darius doing there?”

Jared shrugs awkwardly, because Jensen is still hanging over his shoulder peering at his phone screen like a drunk girl at Mardi Gras hanging over a balcony screaming for beads. “He’s his best friend. It’s Vegas.” Jared says this like it explains everything. It explains nothing.

You don’t see  _ him  _ dragging his best friend to what amounts to basically a work conference in Vegas. Granted, his best friends are Jared and Misha, who will be there by default anyway, but he could drag along someone like Chris if he felt like it. He’s just never had.

If Misha were enough for him, why the fuck shouldn’t he be enough for Misha?

Unfortunately, Jensen hasn’t slept properly in more than 72 hours, which means that last sentence, to Jared’s obvious delight, is said out loud.

“Jensen,” he says, his smile stretched so wide Jensen hopes he strains his face, “Are you jealous?”

“Ha!” the sound that comes out of Jensen’s mouth is quick and sharp and completely involuntary, made all the worse because instead of following it up with actual words, he gets distracted by Darius slinging his arm around Misha’s neck.

Jared follows his gaze back to the phone, still grinning. “Hey, didn’t you buy that jacket with him? John Varvatos, right?”

“So?” Jensen mutters, tracking Darius’ hand as it runs over leather he knows the feel of by memory alone. Jared’s phone makes for really shit viewing, but maybe if he would turn the damn thing…

“So, do you think they’re sharing a hotel room?”

Jensen feels a tug low in his gut, a clench in the back of his throat that makes it hard to swallow as an ugly feeling rises inside of him, irrational and impossible to ignore.

“Jensen! Jared! We’re taking marks!” A PA yells from over by the Impala, and Jensen watches as Jared shoves his phone into his pocket, Darius and Misha disappearing from view.

The awful feeling that’s taken up residence at the base of his skull isn’t as easy to shake.

He and Jared had planned on making it to Vegas sometime Saturday, Jared because he claimed there was some new stuff on the strip he wanted to see and Jensen because he’d promised Rob he’d sing at the Louden Swain concert that night. They hadn’t been sure when they wanted to leave, or even when they were going to be able to leave, their schedule being as fucked up as it was, but Jensen manages to book a flight for an hour later right at the tail end of filming, which was finally wrapping up at 2am.

“I don’t think Vegas is going anywhere, Jen,” Jared says as Jensen is shoving clothes into his rucksack in his trailer. “If you wait a few hours, I’ll fly down with you.”

“I’m awake, might as well get there now,” Jensen tries to shrug nonchalantly, like the driving force behind his total disregard for sleep or a shower has nothing to do with Misha or the sinking feeling in his gut.

Jared snickers, and Jensen looks up at him sharply. “What?”

“Nothing,” he smiles. “You sure this has nothing to do with Misha ‘getting there’ himself?”

Jensen throws a shoe at him and leaves Jared in his trailer, face down on his couch and laughing like an idiot.

He doesn’t manage to sleep on the plane. Misha did another stupid post, he and Darius obviously somewhere on the strip and singing. Misha is so drunk that Jensen feels himself getting irritated, his lack of sleep encouraging him to think up worse and worse scenarios.

Misha is handsy when he’s drunk. Jensen knows this as a fact. He’s also highly philosophical and open to trying pretty much anything you suggest to him. It’s endearing and insanely attractive, and Jensen doesn’t know a person alive who would say no to Misha if he came after them in that state.

He almost can’t blame Darius, except right now he kinda hates the guy and his stupid hands all over Misha’s jacket.

Jensen gets to the hotel that’s been booked for him, Jared, and Misha just after 5am, and he barely has enough brainpower to spit out Misha’s favorite name to use – Alek Pasternak – before he’s dragging himself up to the third floor.

Misha doesn’t answer when he knocks, and he hears no noise coming from inside the room. So Jensen, god help him, slides down to the floor to wait for him to get back.

It doesn’t take long. He hears Misha before he sees him, laughing loud and uninhibited before he rounds the corner with his arm slung around Darius. Jensen doesn’t have the energy to scramble back onto his feet, so he remains on the floor, watching them approach with that feeling back in his gut and making its way up the back of his throat.

Misha doesn’t catch sight of him until he’s almost on top of him, and the look of adorable drunken confusion on his face almost makes up for it. “Jensen?”

“Yeah,” Jensen struggles to his feet, using the door as leverage. He does his best to focus on Misha’s face, not wanting to acknowledge how his arm is wrapped around Darius, but Darius smirks knowingly at him.

“Couldn’t wait to hit Vegas?” Misha asks.

“Guess not,” Jensen says as lightly as possible. “Heard they got a special at the buffet in a few hours.”

Misha inexplicably giggles, which makes Jensen feel warm even though he’s pretty sure Misha is too drunk to know what he’s doing. Then Darius leans into Misha, and hot waves of jealousy come roaring through him. “I’m going to bed,” Darius tells him. “Let me know if you need anything.” He glances at Jensen before planting a quick kiss on Misha’s cheek.

Some sort of noise comes out of Jensen’s mouth, but otherwise he’s pretty proud of himself for keeping quiet.

“So,” Misha drawls, lazily leaning against the wall as Darius disappears down the hallway. “What brings you here?”

“What is Darius doing here?”

“What?” Misha frowns, confused again, and Jensen can’t really blame him. His face is flushed and his hair is messy and sweaty, sticking out every which way from his head. “Darius is my friend.”

“I know,” Jensen bites out. “But why does he need to be here?”

“I don’t understand.” Misha licks his lips, rolling his neck like it’s got a kink. “I wanted him here.”

“It’s a whole fucking weekend with me and Jared and Rob and Rich and Matt. Why the fuck do you want him here?”

Misha’s eyes narrow, and they’ve suddenly gone sharper, like a thought has come through clear enough to pull him out of the fog of alcohol. “Ah,” he says shortly. “Well, although a weekend with Jared and Rob and Rich and Matt does sound nice, I’m not sure what you would add to the equation, since our relationship doesn’t seem to exist.”

“Wow. Really. That’s what you’ve been hung up on all week?” Jensen laughs. “Can’t be that upset about it if you’re posting videos of yourself hanging all over Darius.”

Misha raises an eyebrow. “Is that jealousy, Jensen?”

Jensen swears. Loudly. “If it is, it’s only because you’re doing it on purpose.”

“If you have a fucking problem with my best friend, this isn’t going to – ”

“I don’t have a problem with Darius!” Jensen explodes. “I have a problem with you two being so touchy-feely and throwing it in my face!”

Misha snorts. That’s it. Just snorts.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means stop being a fucking coward!” Misha finally snaps, growling as he gives one sharp push that forces Jensen’s back to hit the door. “Stop running away from this because you’re scared! This stopped being a fucking game a long time ago, Jensen.”

“You think this was ever a game?” Jensen laughs, a tinge of hysteria from what he can only assume is sleep deprivation creeping into the sound. “You think I like being confused about my wife, or your wife, or the fact that you’re a dude, or that—that I just don’t want other people touching you? Damn it, Misha, I want to be the only guy you treat like that, this was never a fucking game to me!”

Misha squints at him, his jaw set. “If you want this to be an exclusive thing, you better kiss me now.”

It turns out Jensen doesn’t have to be drunk to do whatever Misha tells him to do. His lips are chapped and rough as Jensen covers them with his own, his hand working into Misha’s sweaty hair. Misha makes a noise of approval and quickly takes control, pressing Jensen into the door.

Jensen has imagined kissing Misha before, whenever he’s said something funny or gives him that piercing look that only he can seem to pull off. But he never could have imagined the feel of Misha’s chest against his, or his thick thigh digging into the space between his legs and rubbing against his crotch or his tongue as it carefully licks along the seam of Jensen’s lips, like Misha is marking his territory.

“Jensen,” Misha chuckles, breaking away and resting his forehead against his shoulder. “You’re falling over.”

“Yeah, and you smell like a sorority girl at the end of a bar crawl, so what?” Jensen murmurs, pushing his face into Misha’s hair. He’s just realized that they’re slumped down on the door, Misha’s leg possibly the only thing holding him upright anymore.

Misha huffs, reaching around Jensen and fumbling for a moment before the door swings open. Jensen stumbles backwards and Misha follows, grinning.

“Come on, bedtime,” he sings, leading Jensen over to the bed.

“But I want to make out,” Jensen complains, although his body isn’t listening as he falls onto the bed.

Misha collapses on top of him, and Jensen lets out an oomph but makes no effort to move him off, instead slinging an arm around him and pulling him closer. “Tomorrow,” he promises. “This is really happening.”

“Yeah,” Jensen replies, his eyes already closed. “Haha.”

“What?” He can feel Misha’s smile against his neck, and it makes him smile in turn.

“Destiel exists.”

“Go to sleep, Jen.”


End file.
